The perks and pitfalls of a Fourth of July birthday
- Tom Rife: Livin' the Team
- July 1, 2021
- 1031
A new — and extraordinarily gifted — friend wasn’t the least bit shy, showing no hesitancy as she delivered the sweetest birthday kiss ever.
“Oooooh honey, I see fireworks,” she whispered as her fingers caressed the back of my neck.
A model of naivety, I simply assumed she was facing south and neglected to close her eyes during the brief show of affection. After all, there we were, submerged among the thousands who jammed the beach that night to celebrate the birth of America’s independence. Everybody saw the fireworks that exploded off the end of the trademark fishing pier in Naples, Florida.
The skyrockets zoomed high, and the bombs were earsplitting. The sizzling display was spine-tingling, which was always the case in the time-honored tradition that attracted patriotic partiers from throughout the Sunshine State peninsula.
To the dismay of most, the show, while entertaining, never lasted as long as the traffic snarl that ensued: cars, trucks, bicyclists and cooler-toting pedestrians inching their way through the ritzy, meticulous neighborhood streets that led away from the glimmering seashore.
Out on the gulf itself, an armada of pleasure boats, anchored near the weathered pier, would spring to life, creating a different kind of spectacle as too many bibulous captains weaved and bobbed their way back to port.
On a clear night, revelers could even see the pyrotechnics still in progress on Fort Myers Beach to the north.
As for memorable birthday smooches, such were the many perks of those of us lucky enough to be born on the Fourth of July. We’ve never needed Lee Greenwood or Bruce Springsteen to remind us that America’s cherished freedoms are the greatest gifts we could ever ask for.
As a toddler I was sold on the fact the fireworks we watched in rural Greenfield, Ohio were all done because it was my birthday. At least that’s what Mom and Dad always said. We’d eagerly pile into the car and head for town, arriving just in time to get our lawn chairs, blankets and snacks in perfect viewing position.
Most of the time, the organizers would shoot off the rockets at the local ballfield. On rare occasions the atmosphere was extra festive because the carnival just happened to be going on at that same wide-open venue.
The only fear was the still-glowing, ever-blowing embers still cascading from the sky might catch some poor soul’s roof on fire. When the Fourth of July celebration was finally moved to the local drive-in movie on the edge of the tiny city, the good folks at the firehouse were a lot more at-ease.
The only thing there that could have gone up in flames was the dilapidated concession stand, which would have been a true blessing for those brave enough to patronize it. Even the napkins were greasy.
Once the community’s favorite gathering place on a balmy summer eve, the drive-in eventually closed down. Young lovers scrambled to find new hideouts where they could safely fog up the windows.
Among them was Roger, my best friend in high school. He went on to graduate from General Motors Institute in Michigan. Then he quickly gave up a job at the nearby Chevy dealer and purchased the sprawling farm adjacent to the vacated drive-in gates. For fun he and his son still help judge the classic car cruise-in at the annual Greene Countrie Towne Festival.
As time went on, Mom and Dad eventually revealed the real reason for the annual fireworks display. They also told me the tooth fairy didn’t exist and that all those brightly wrapped packages under the tree on Christmas morning weren’t delivered by a jolly, fat man in a red suit. They insisted no human being ever entered the house through our soot-filled chimney.
Yes, there was a bit of a letdown. But no tears were shed. To this day I still “believe” — and I’ve grown to realize some of the best fireworks shows occur after Independence Day sporting events.
A salute two years ago at a Cleveland Indians game comes to mind. The production was artfully and spectacularly synchronized to music and included billowing fireballs in front of the bleachers in left field. At times explosives soared simultaneously the entire circumference around the roof of Progressive Field.
Without reservation the best fireworks display I ever witnessed at the end of a sporting event took place at a July NASCAR firecracker classic at the Daytona International Speedway. It was the first night race at the track, and the ambitious organizers came through in a big way.
Long after the checkered flag waved, delighted race fans lingered in their seats to marvel at the show that went on for more than an hour. The much-anticipated finale was simply breathtaking. And by the time I finally returned to my car in the wee hours and got back on Interstate 4 West toward Orlando, I’d almost forgotten who actually won the race.
As for the woman who delivered that Fourth of July birthday kiss on the beach in Florida many, many years ago, the friendship eventually went the way so many crackling courtships often do. The sparks faded, and the allure went up in smoke like a batch of Bada Bing Bada Boom duds.
That was the moment I fully understood why Mom and Dad always refused to let us kids play with sparklers.